by Bird, Peggy
Until she decided what to do, she’d take them both home and lock them in her desk there. If she hadn’t figured it out by the time the police solved the murders, she’d turn the letters over to them. They wouldn’t be happy but surely they’d understand why she did it. Wouldn’t they?
Funny, last year, she didn’t trust the Police Bureau to detect their way out of a gunnysack. This year, she had to depend on them to find out who this guy was. And fast. Until they did, she had to protect Sam the way he’d protected her. She didn’t know how good she would be at lying to him. It was hard enough keeping what she knew from Danny Hartmann.
It had been a great relief when she realized Sam wasn’t around when she’d been at the precinct. If she’d had to go through that conversation with Detective Hartmann in front of him, she’d have never been able to keep anything secret.
Oh, God, it was last year all over again. The threat from Eubie Kane. Now his murder. Her prints on Leo’s gun. A gun found at the murder scene. Her wrecked studio. She was being set up for something she hadn’t done. And the next step was for no one to believe her and …
No, she wouldn’t go there. She’d just see how it unfolded. Maybe it would be different this time.
• • •
Two hours after she got home that night, Sam appeared at her door.
“You must wonder about your luck,” she said when he took her in his arms. “How many men have women in their lives who are constantly suspected of murdering people?”
“Amanda, no one thinks … ”
“Yes, they do. Don’t b.s. me.” She turned her face up to him, hoping he didn’t see what was underlying her fear.
“We’ll find the person who did this and it’ll be fine.”
“I can’t go through this again, I can’t.” She buried her face in his shirt and wept.
When she’d stopped crying, he led her to the living room couch. He wiped her eyes with his handkerchief. “Tell me about yesterday.”
“I went to work at noon. I came home a little after nine. It was just the usual.”
“What about the phone call from Eubie Kane?”
“What about it? He called and asked if he could meet me at the studio. I told him he was welcome to come by before ten.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I thought we could get it straightened out. But he never showed. So, before I came home I called him to say I was leaving. He didn’t answer.”
“That’s all there was?”
“Why do you keep asking me questions? You don’t think I did this, do you?”
“Of course not. I’m only trying to work out what happened.”
“Are you and Detective Hartmann assigned to this?”
He avoided looking at her as he answered. “No, I’ve been … Danny’s working it.”
“So, you’re out of it.” She ran her fingers through her hair and stared at the ceiling so he couldn’t see that she was pleased he had been taken off the case.
“It doesn’t mean I’m not interested.” He gently tipped her face down so she was looking at him. “I’m trying to figure out why the killer went to the trouble of stealing that specific gun to use on a guy who came out of nowhere riled up about you. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
She teared up again.
Sam kissed her forehead. “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s change the subject. How about I have a pizza delivered and stay with you tonight?”
“I’d love it, to all three suggestions. Thank you.” She wiped her eyes and started to get up. “I better go take care of Chihuly.”
“I’ll do that after I call for the pizza. Your usual Margherita?”
• • •
They went to bed early. Unlike most nights when they slept together, Amanda had donned a light cotton nightgown. It was convent-modest; the last thing on her mind was sex. But when she curled up in a ball clutching her pillow, Sam lay down beside her, still dressed, and slowly, rhythmically, rubbed her shoulders to relax her. In only a few minutes, she began to respond to him just as she always did, her nipples hardening, her breathing kicking up a notch or two.
She shrugged her shoulder up, turned her head, kissed his hand, then faced him. He whispered, “Good night” and moved to kiss her softly but she took his mouth in what was no tentative goodnight peck but a fierce, demanding kiss. Her lips parted, her tongue urged his mouth to open for her.
He broke from their embrace. “Amanda, don’t you think you’d do better with some sleep?”
“Please, Sam, I need you tonight.”
“Oh, baby, you always have me, you know that.” He pulled her closer, kissed her tenderly, skating his hands over her back.
She broke free to unbutton his shirt. He began to help but she brushed his hands away. “Let me. Tonight, let me do this.”
When she’d finished unbuttoning his shirt, he shed it, then pulled off his boots before he lay back down again. He watched as she opened the zipper on his jeans then worked them off along with his boxer briefs.
After she’d finished undressing him, she knelt between his legs looking at what she’d uncovered — his powerful thighs, the erection she had plans for, the chest and shoulders she loved to touch. When she shed her nightgown she accidently brushed it across his penis. Sam groaned as his member jumped in response to the light touch. She loved seeing how much he wanted her, how he needed this as much as she did tonight.
Running her hands up his thighs, she avoided touching his erection, instead caressing his abs and his chest. When she reached his face, she leaned in, felt him press his hips up against her, heard him groan again, but she buried the sound in a kiss.
He lifted her hips up to bring her sex in contact with his but she fought it, moving back down his body. With hot, wet, lingering kisses she covered his neck, his chest, his navel while her hand found its way to his penis. Rubbing him, feeling the strength and power of his erection made her wet and needy. But she wanted to do something for him first, something that would make her feel in control of some aspect of her life.
On her knees again, she moved her mouth to join her hand and took him in, a bit at a time, sucking, licking. Listening to him groan as she continued to stroke and suck stoked her desire. She loved the taste of him, the taste of salt and sex and the sea. She could have gone on for hours.
But he couldn’t. He reached down for her, pulled her up and handed her a condom. She quickly covered him and positioned herself over him so he could enter her. When he drove into her, he obliterated any thought from her mind other than how good it felt to have him fill her. With only a few powerful thrusts, they both reached climax.
Wordlessly she collapsed on him and he held her. When she tried to hide the tears leaking from her eyes, he didn’t say anything, only kissed each one. As they lay there, bodies still entwined, Amanda wondered if this time even Sam could ward off the ghosts she could feel gathering outside in the dusk.
• • •
Early the next morning before the alarm went off Amanda wakened with an uneasy feeling. She listened for a sound that was out of the ordinary, tried to remember if she’d had a bad dream. When she was fully awake, it all came back to her. What had happened. What she knew. What she had to hide. Even though she was wrapped in a blanket, she began to shiver and couldn’t stop, waking Sam with her shaking.
He reached for her. “Cold, baby?”
“Scared.” She crept into his arms.
“We’ll work this out. It’s not the same as … ” He didn’t finish the sentence. “How ’bout we go to the beach this weekend? We can rent horses from your friend’s stable and I’ll let you beat me in a race on the beach. Or, we can go to the movies and you can pick a sappy romantic movie and make me watch it. Or … ”
She put her hand over his mouth. “Don’t, Sam, pleas
e. I’m not in the mood for joking.”
He kissed her. “I was going to say, or we could make love again.”
“Not this morning, Sam.” She grabbed the quilt that had drifted down to the foot of the bed and wrapped herself in it, turning her back on him. He tried to hold her but she hugged the edge of the bed on her side.
Chapter Nine
Sam was off the case but he wasn’t out of the loop. He picked up gossip from colleagues and his partner shared what she could. When all else failed, he snooped.
Danny Hartman told him Amanda’s supposed motive was proving to be weak. No one in the art community had heard of — or believed — Kane’s assertion that she stole ideas from him. Everyone thought it was just a jealous artist shooting off his mouth. Not only would Kane have lost in court, he’d have lost everyone’s respect because he’d tried to ruin a talented and well-liked artist.
Among the police investigating the murders, there was serious doubt that Amanda could have dragged Robin Jordan back to the classroom after the struggle evident in the retail area. And the ME’s report looked good. Sam had seen it sitting on Danny’s desk and had read it. He didn’t think she’d mind.
It said that, from the bruising on Kane’s neck and the angle of the gunshot wound, it was probable a left-handed person had wrestled the six-foot, three-inch victim to the ground before shooting him. Amanda was right-handed, more than foot shorter and weighed less than the bales of hay he’d bucked on the ranch.
And from the scrapings under her fingernails, Jordan had scratched her assailant. Amanda showed no signs of scratches.
By the time he’d finished reading the report, Sam could almost believe it was all over. Amanda was home free. He’d be back on the case with Danny and they would turn their attention to looking for the real perp.
Then he was called into L.T.’s office. Danny was there. When she avoided his gaze he knew it wasn’t going to be a good conversation.
After the usual throat-clearing preliminaries were out of the way, Angel said, “I need to ask you a few questions about Amanda St. Claire. You comfortable with that?”
“I guess.”
“What’d she tell you about the break-in at her studio the night of the murders?”
Sam relaxed back in the chair. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. Maybe they were just cleaning up the details. “Just that it happened. It’s not the first time. Not even the first time this month. That building’s as easy to get into as a pop-top can.”
“Yeah, she said. Did she tell you anything else about it?”
“You mean the bloody towel and the clip from Leo’s gun? Yeah.” He looked at the lieutenant, trying to figure out where this conversation was headed. “Don’t you think it was the killer trying to throw suspicion on her? I do.”
“What else did she say about the night of the murder?”
“Nothing. Is there something she should have told me?”
The lieutenant nodded to Danny.
Still avoiding Sam’s eyes, she said, “There was a guy working late across the street from Bullseye. A little after nine, he was loading up his truck when he saw a red SUV pull into the parking area in front of the Resource Center. It was raining so he didn’t get a clear look at the plate but he thought it was a vanity plate with no numbers.”
Sam jumped out of his chair and began to walk back and forth across the office.
Danny continued. “A short woman got out of the vehicle, went to the front door. Then she ran south, along Twenty-first, toward the factory entrance. He was pulling out less than ten minutes later when he saw her come around the corner from the north side of the building, like a bat out of hell, he said. She got in the SUV and roared out.” She caught Sam’s arm as he paced past her. “He saw the first and last letters in the plate as she pulled out. They were G and O. Amanda drives … ”
“A two-year-old red Toyota Highlander with a plate that says ‘GLASSCO.’” Sam finished her sentence as he shook off her hand.
“Amanda was there, Sam, around the time of the murders. The question is, why does she think she has to lie about it?”
“Christ,” Sam muttered as he continued to pace around the room, his hands jammed into his jeans’ pockets. “What the hell did she think … ?” He stopped in front of Danny Hartmann. “What did she say when you asked her to explain?”
“Haven’t asked her yet but I intend to today. I wanted to see if she’d said something to you that might help us understand what went on.”
“No, she said she went to work at noon and home a little after nine. Other than that, all she said was that she’s freaked. Thinks the same thing’s happening that happened last year.”
“I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Don’t be. You’re not the one who lied to me … to us.” He started to leave the office.
Danny rose from her chair. “Wait, I’m on my way to see Liz Fairchild.” She turned to their boss. “Okay if Sam comes along? He’s the one Liz agreed to see.”
Angel nodded consent and the meeting broke up.
• • •
Sam and Danny drove separately to The Fairchild Gallery so his partner could go see Amanda afterwards. Since he wasn’t exactly on a roll that morning, he was surprised when he scored a parking space right in front of the gallery.
He waited for Danny to join him, then knocked at the gallery door. Liz Fairchild immediately answered. Before he could finish introducing himself, Liz interrupted. “Of course I know who you are. I remember what you did last year for one of my best artists. Come in.”
“This is Detective Danny Hartmann,” Sam finished the introductions. “Thanks for seeing us before you open up.”
“No problem. But I’m curious what the Portland Police Bureau thinks I can do to help them,” Liz said as she led them through the gallery. It was elegant looking, all cream-colored walls, focused light and strategically placed partial walls at interesting angles. In the front of the gallery was an exhibit of scenes from the Southwest. In the back, the works of other artists were on the walls; metal sculpture and glass pieces were displayed on pedestals. In a simple but well-designed case, jewelry and smaller objects were arranged.
Her office, on the other hand, was decorated with nothing except a calendar and a large bulletin board covered in layers of announcements, postcards, and invitations. Which suited the furnishings — a battered desk and two equally beat-up file cabinets. Accommodations for visitors consisted of a couple of folding chairs. Only the computer looked state of the art. Liz clearly didn’t waste money on anything her clients wouldn’t see.
Sam and Danny opened the folding chairs and sat while Liz poured coffee for them, coffee that thankfully matched the classy gallery and not the office if the aroma was any indication. Settling in her desk chair with her mug, Liz looked from one detective to the other and said, “So, what can I do for you this morning?”
“Danny’s the detective in charge of the Kane/Jordan case,” Sam said. “We heard you had a run-in with Eubie Kane not long before he was killed. Mind telling us what it was about?”
She sniffed. “He’s been a pain since I signed him for the gallery. His latest was trying to get out of his contract when he thought he could get into a gallery he considered a step up. I wouldn’t let him go. I’d dropped a bundle for print ads announcing a solo show for him next month. That’s what the run-in was about. He wanted out. I wouldn’t let him, not without the two months’ notice he agreed to. I was pissed at him, the little worm.”
After she took a sip of her coffee, she continued. “Sorry. I’m not as insensitive as that sounds. Not even someone who was a pain in the ass should have his life cut short like that. And Robin Jordan. I heard she was a real sweetheart.”
“Did you have trouble with him before the contract issue came up?” Danny asked.
“Oh, ho
ney, all the time. He complained about everything.” She imitated Eubie’s whine. “The light’s not right for my glass. Do something about it. Those pedestals don’t show off my work to its best advantage. Get new ones.” She threw up her hands and returned to her normal voice. “If he wasn’t bitching about one thing, it was another.”
“If he was that much trouble, why didn’t you let him go?” Sam asked.
“Because I liked the work and it sold pretty well. I don’t have to be an artist’s best friend to represent them.”
“Okay, so you and he had it out last Monday. You gave him a note?” Danny continued.
“He wouldn’t listen when I said no, so finally I said maybe if I put it in writing he’d understand. I wrote, ‘hell no, you can’t go’ or something like that on a piece of brown paper — I was hanging a show and the floor was littered with the stuff — and gave it to him. How’d you figure out I wrote it?”
“Part of a mailing label with your name on it was on the other side,” Danny said.
“Remind me not to write any ransom notes, will you?” She got up from her desk and picked up the coffee carafe. Saying, “Let me freshen your coffee,” she topped up the two visitors’ mugs before emptying the remainder of the contents of the pot into her own.
“He got into it with Amanda St. Claire recently, accused her of stealing his ideas. Do you think there was any basis to that?” Sam asked.
“If anyone stole ideas, it was the other way around. Eubie was technically pretty good and people liked his work but he played it safe, did the same thing over and over. Not like Amanda who’s always pushing herself and has an omigod originality that attracts critical attention.”
“So, to have it for the record,” Danny said, “Where were you Tuesday between say, seven and ten pm?”
“You mean this past Tuesday night?”
Danny nodded.
“Let’s see — I had drinks with a friend. After that, I dropped by a new gallery that’s trying to stay open late most nights. Wanted to see if they were getting any foot traffic. I went home after I had dinner. I was leaving for Seattle the next morning and wanted to get a good night’s sleep.”